Burn
by whitchry9
Summary: Sherlock had known Moriarty would try to burn the heart out of him. He just never expected it to be so... mundane. Honestly, using actual fire? Dull. Told from multiple POVs.
1. Sherlock

Sherlock was rather disappointed in Moriarty.

When he said he was going to burn the heart out of Sherlock, Sherlock assumed it would be in a figurative way, kidnapping and torturing John, brutally murdering all his friends, even torturing him until all humanity was gone.

This was far less elegant.

And frankly, Sherlock was furious.

Sherlock had been in the kitchen, examining chemical reactions under his microscope when John asked, seemingly out of nowhere, if Sherlock was burning something.

"Sherlock, are you doing an experiment with fire, because I told you that..."

John trailed off as he looked over to Sherlock sitting in the kitchen at his microscope, no burning to be seen.

"Nope. Perhaps Mrs Hudson has been baking and forgotten?"

John rolled his eyes. "Mrs Hudson left, remember? Some sort of emergency with her sister's cat."

Flicking his microscope off, Sherlock swivelled to look at John. "All the more reason for something to be burning. Mrs Hudson was baking, and in her rush to get to her sister's forgot about it. When did she leave?"

"Over three hours ago. If she was cooking something it would have burned already."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. And your explanation is?..."

"I'm still not entirely sure it's not you."

Sherlock sighed and threw up his arms. "Examine the kitchen if you'd like. There's nothing here."

John did another once over the kitchen, and finally seemed to agree with Sherlock.

"Don't you smell that?" he demanded. "Normally your sense of smell is way better than mine."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed.

"Let me guess, another one of your experiments."

Sherlock shrugged. "It should be gone by the end of the week. But now that you mention it, I do smell burning." He wrinkled his nose in discontentment.

John sighed, heading for the door out of their flat, which was, for once, closed.

"You and your stupid-" he stopped abruptly, placing his hand on the door handle and drawing it back like it burned him. _Like it burned him..._

"John?" Sherlock called, concerned.

"It's hot," John said quietly. "Very hot." He placed his hands on the surface of the door. "The whole door is hot." He stepped away from the door. "The fire's out there, downstairs, upstairs, whatever. We can't go out that way.

Glancing at Sherlock, he took off for his room. He placed his hand more cautiously on the handle this time, recoiling just as quickly. "Damn," he hissed, shaking his hand.

John looked at Sherlock. "What do we do?" he asked, a hint of panic in his voice.

"Call Lestrade," Sherlock ordered John.

"I can't, phone's in my room."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. Of all the times...

"Where's yours?" John asked, looking almost panicked. But not quite.

"I'm thinking alright!?"

John groaned.

"The table! The kitchen table. I had it doing my experiment."

Sherlock began throwing papers everywhere.

"Got it!" he declared.

Dialling, he held his phone to his ear.

"Lestrade. Fire at 221b. Now." He hung up and dialled again.

"221b Baker street. Fire." With that he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"Who'd you call?"

"Lestrade and emergency services. Just in case Lestrade forgot about that."

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft will already know. Probably," he added as an afterthought.

John didn't even want to know what that meant.

"Reaction time is seven minutes, give or take," Sherlock muttered to himself.

"I don't think we have seven minutes," John told him, noting that the room was visibly more... hazy than it should have been. "So what do we do?"

Sherlock didn't seem to have an answer to that. This coming from the man who would outlive god just to have the last word. Sherlock's absence of usual derogatory comments worried John more than the growing cloud in the room.

"Thinking," Sherlock declared, placing his hands under his chin.

_Obviously Moriarty's doing. No one else would take the care to plan something out like this. Any other criminal would just shoot or stab or poison me. So. What would Moriarty do? Ensure there was no chance of escape. Meaning, back bedroom, downstairs, and upstairs are off limits, as they have exits, more or less. No accelerants, but perhaps some toxic chemicals thrown in for fun. Doesn't want us to burn to death right away, he wants us to succumb to smoke inhalation first, then burn while we lay unconscious. Right. Great._

Sherlock ran through the floor plan of 221b. Exits. His room, which had a suitable window for escaping out of, as demonstrated multiple times by one Irene Adler, was not available. They could not go up or down. They had the kitchen and living room. Essentially, nothing.

"I..." Sherlock began, completely at a loss for what to follow that up with. He just stood there, staring blankly at the door as if it had personally wronged him.

_Why not when Mrs Hudson was here?Oh, of course. Change of plans. Recent development. Bordering on emergency in fact. _Perhaps Moriarty didn't know about this change of plans (in which case, someone would be getting punished...), didn't have time to alter his own, or simply didn't care.

But that was something for Sherlock to ponder some other time, provided he and John got out of their flat alive.

"Get down here," John demanded, crouching on the floor and tugging Sherlock down to join him. "You're ridiculously tall. Didn't you ever learn about fire safety."

Sherlock shrugged, feeling decidedly uncomfortable on the floor. "May have deleted it."

John groaned. "But what do we do? This has to be a chemistry thing, or a physics thing. How do we get out?"

They could feel the heat now. The fire must have been growing beneath them.

"I don't think we do," Sherlock said quietly. "I think all we can do is wait."

"I hate waiting to be rescued."

Sherlock nodded.

_He'd had his minions do it in such a way that the exits were blocked, but they were in no immediate danger. No, because that would be no fun. In fact, his statement was entirely wrong, because they'd both succumb to smoke inhalation before burning._

Sherlock would have sighed at the tedium of it all was he not busy trying to not breathe smoke filled air.


	2. John

His mobile vibrated and John could feel it through the floor.

"What?" Sherlock answered.

John could hear bits of the conversation. Mycroft?

"No, I didn't do it. Moriarty. Recall that conversation in the pool? Well, this is how he's doing it. Rather dull," he added at the end, sounding bored.

John could tell by Sherlock's expression, although through the smoke, that it was definitely Mycroft.

"So, where are all your people?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. John couldn't hear what Mycroft said back.

"Not surprising. Quite predictable really."

Sherlock attempted to stifle a cough and failed miserably. John had wisely covered his mouth and nose with part of his jumper and was still doing well.

"Give me that," he ordered, pulling the mobile from Sherlock's hand. "And cover your face."

"Mycroft," John greeted. "Really can't talk now. Rescue would be great. Bye."

He looked back at Sherlock, who was still hacking despite covering his face with his shirt.

"You and your stupid shirts. If you had a jumper like mine you'd be doing well."

Sherlock glared at him, saving his breath for coughing and breathing in toxic chemicals.

John smiled behind his sweater, knowing that Sherlock would be able to see the crinkles by his eyes and deduce what he was doing.

Sherlock kept coughing, and the smile by John's eyes vanished.

"Sherlock," he said. "Talk to me. Just take slow deep breaths. Look at me," he ordered.

Sherlock obeyed, but just barely.

_Damn his shirt choices. _

There were sirens outside, drawing nearer to the flat.

_It hasn't been seven minutes yet. Has it? _Time seemed to have lost meaning as soon as they realized the flat was on fire.

John listened as the sirens got louder and finally stopped.

Sherlock stopped coughing and that concerned John even more.

"Sherlock?" he croaked, shoving Sherlock's arm roughly. There was no response. "Hang on. Just another minute."

_What are they doing out there? Do they come in to get us? Do they even know we're here? Do they have to put the fire out first? _John realized he hadn't the slightest clue about fire procedures. He knew slightly more than Sherlock, but that wasn't saying much.

He coughed, his throat and eyes burning.

_Hurry up Mycroft Holmes and your bloody British government._

John coughed again, unable to stop himself despite the tearing feeling it caused in his throat. Why was he so thirsty? _God this is dull..._

John grinned. _No wonder Sherlock's unconscious... he was so bored._ John managed to stifle a giggle, knowing that it would only lead to coughing.

He must have drifted off like that, smiling maniacally and coughing, missing all the excitement of the full force of the British government bursting in by seconds.


	3. John II

John awoke in the ambulance, feeling strangely claustrophobic with an oxygen mask on his face. He reached up to rip it off, vaguely noticing an IV in his hand that seemed to have the sole purpose of restricting his movement.

His hand was halted by someone else's, accompanied by a warning.

"Don't." It was a rather familiar voice, but John's brain was fuzzy and his lungs were hurting (can lungs hurt?) and he couldn't quite place it at the moment.

John blinked. Lestrade?

_Why isn't he responding? Oh. Right. Not out loud._

John tried again. "Lestrade?" It was muffled by the mask and croaky to the point of being embarrassing, but it was aloud and the DI seemed to hear it.

"Yeah. Got Sherlock's really odd call. A little more detail would be good next time." his face clouded. "Not saying there will be a next time, but..."

John attempted to nod.

"Sherlock?"

"He's in the ambulance just ahead of us," Greg reassured him. But how is he? And why aren't you with him?

_Out loud John, _he reminded himself.

"Why aren't you..." he managed, before being overcome by a coughing fit that left his windpipe screaming and his head spinning.

"Mycroft was with him." Lestrade shook his head. "I really didn't want to get in the middle of that."

_Mycroft... interesting._

"But-" John began again, once again rudely interrupted by a coughing fit. _Can people actually cough up bits of their lungs? Perhaps Sherlock could do an experiment..._

But John's head was already spinning, and this second bout in less than a minute proved to be too much for him, and he lost his grip on reality for a bit.


	4. Sherlock II

Sherlock reawoke briefly to a gagging sensation as a paramedic shoved a tube down his throat.

_Conscious you idiots. Drug me or you will have the full force of the British government making your life miserable._

It was only after the metal blade was pulled out of his mouth and oxygen pumped into his lungs through the tube in his throat that he realized how much he'd been choking and struggling to breathe.

_Of course, now you drug me... _he grumbled to himself as the drugs kicked in and he drifted off.


	5. Lestrade

Lestrade's heart was racing from the second Sherlock hung up the phone. "Lestrade. Fire at 221b. Now."

What kind of a message was that? He didn't even give Lestrade a chance to ask if he was okay, or if John was, or if Mrs Hudson was even home.

He allowed himself a second of shock, then sprang to life, dashing out of his office and calling his team.

"Arson in progress! Let's go!"

"But we don't do arson-" Anderson began to protest.

"We do this one," Lestrade cut in, absolutely determined.

Anderson shut up and followed, as did the rest of his team.

"Address?" Sally called.

"Baker street," Lestrade replied grimly.

Lestrade phoned emergency services on his way to Baker street, who reassured him that another call had already been placed.

"There are two men inside and possibly a woman," he warned them.

The operator reassured him that the firemen would do their best.

He hung up and went faster.

When he arrived at Baker street, the rest of his team trailing behind him, the firetrucks and ambulance were just arriving as well.

The fire wasn't huge, not spilling out off 221 to threaten the rest of the street, but from what Lestrade could see it was producing thick black smoke, the likes of which he hadn't seen before. And if he recalled correctly, it was most often smoke inhalation that cause fatalities in a fire, not the burns themselves.

"Mycroft?" he called, shocked to see him there.

"Greg," he replied, ridiculously calm for the circumstances. "Mrs Hudson is not at home."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay." Now was not the time to question Mycroft's surveillance techniques.

Lestrade ran through the numbers. _Seven minute response time to Baker street, perhaps an extra minute before they figured out what was going on, maybe five more before they get pulled out... Thirteen minutes. How long does it take for smoke inhalation to kill?_

Lestrade watched anxiously as firemen finally emerged with bodies. _No, not bodies. Bodies are dead. They are not dead. _Victims, Lestrade corrected. He watched as firemen emerged with victims, rushing them over to the waiting paramedics.

Lestrade vaguely recognized one as Sherlock and one as John, simply by the height difference and hair length. They were both covered in soot, but seemed to be not burned, or at least not badly.

_That's good, _Lestrade reassured himself, pushing to get to the gurneys.

"Police," he snapped, flashing his badge at the paramedics. "I need to ride with them."

A paramedic shrugged. "Pick an ambulance. They're going separately."

Lestrade took a step towards Sherlock instinctively. It's what John would have wanted. Someone needed to be babysitting him, and if it couldn't be John, Lestrade would have to do.

He was prevented from climbing into the ambulance by an umbrella. Mycroft.

"Go with Doctor Watson," he said. "I shall accompany my brother."

Lestrade glared at him, knowing how much Sherlock would hate that, but knew there was no time for arguments, and even if there was, Mycroft could win with a single phone call.

He took one last glance at Sherlock and hopped in the ambulance with John.

John awoke briefly, but was disoriented, and not being a very good patient. Lestrade answered his questions as well as he could, but really had no idea how Sherlock was doing, and even if he did, Lestrade wouldn't have told John he was anything but fine. This way at least he had plausible deniability.

His heart sank as John passed out again in the ambulance. Perhaps for the best, but it was concerning. If anything, he was more worried about Sherlock, who wasn't breathing on his own when the ambulance had left. He'd seen Sherlock covered by tubes before, and this was no different, but there was no getting used to that sight. Lestrade just held John's hand and watched him breathe shakily until they arrived at the hospital and John was torn away from him.

He collapsed into a seat in the waiting room. Mycroft was probably in with his brother. _At least he can update me, _Lestrade figured.


	6. Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes maintained the fact that he held a minor position in the British government. However, he felt no need to share that the term 'minor' was relative. In his case, relative to the queen's position. Compared to most... rather not.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, of course knew this, and tried to convince everyone else of this, which went over less than effectively until Mycroft arranged a meeting with them. Things became clear after those meetings.

And one of the perks of being a 'minor' government official was unlimited access to information regarding his brother, as well as his brother himself when in hospital. The same applied to the good Doctor Watson, and really, anyone he'd ever need information regarding. He tried not to abuse the privilege too much though.

However, this was one of those situations where it was perfectly justified. He practically ordered Lestrade to accompany John to the hospital, as he would be riding with Sherlock. Riding along in ambulances was not something he enjoyed, having done it many times before with Sherlock, usually from an overdose or something else equally stupid, but he felt this was a bit different. This was not a result of reckless behaviour on Sherlock's part. It was not his fault at all. It was a madman who'd taken an interest in Sherlock, and was pulling tricks to get his attention at any cost.

He fired off a text to his assistant during the ride, knowing that an ambulance with sirens blaring and two paramedics conversing anxiously about his brother was not a place to have a conversation. That being done, he focused his attention on Sherlock.

He watched angrily as the paramedics intubated him despite clear signs that Sherlock was regaining consciousness. It was only after the worst part was over that they drugged him.

Mycroft took note of their names. He would be looking into it.

At the hospital, he trailed after the paramedics, following them into the depths of A&E, flashing a magic bit of paper anytime someone looked like they wanted to stop him. He halted outside the door of the trauma room, knowing that being inside would be of no help to anyone.

Doctor Watson was rolled into the room next to Sherlock, Mycroft relieved to see he was still breathing on his own, although it seemed it was not to last.

Almost immediately doctors began preparing to intubate John. Mycroft looked away and back to his brother.

From what he could tell, it wasn't looking too promising.

A short time later Sherlock's doctor stepped out. A quick conversation was all that was needed and Sherlock was headed off for hyperbaric oxygen therapy for the smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning.

He was assured that John would not need such treatment, as his levels of CO in his blood were lower. Mycroft was dubious, but the doctor insisted it was in John's best interests to not go into the hyperbaric chamber.

Both of them had minor burns along with severe smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning, but Mycroft was assured they should both recover, and likely with no brain damage.

Paste your document here...


	7. Lestrade II

Lestrade hung around the waiting room until Mycroft gave him an update and sent him home to rest.

"I'll need you and your people looking into this. You won't be of any use exhausted and worn out. They should both be sedated for at least tonight and most of tomorrow."

Lestrade knew not to argue with Mycroft. He'd attempted that before and lost. Miserably.

So he nodded and headed home, determined to come back the next morning, even if it was just to sit at bedsides.

He took a cab back to Baker street, realizing his car was still there. Hopefully it was.

Giving the cabbie the address, Lestrade pulled out his phone and flipped through his contacts, stopping on one that he'd never used before, but had been given just in case.

"Hello. Mrs Hudson? Yes, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade." He'd waited while the landlady figured out who he was. "Yes. I'm afraid to tell you there's been a fire at Baker street. Sherlock and John have been taken to hospital, but are doing fine. There is a bit of damage, but Sherlock's brother informed me that he will arrange for it all to be fixed relatively soon." He arrived at Baker street and paid the cabbie, still listening as she fretted about her boys and her flat, finally enquiring as to whether it was Sherlock's fault or not. "No, no, it wasn't his fault. Arson I'm afraid."

Anderson gestured to him from behind the yellow tape that indicated a crime scene.

"I'm afraid I have to go Mrs Hudson. I'll try to call in the morning with an update, alright? Goodbye."

Slipping his phone back in his pocket, he jogged over to Anderson, ducking under the tape.

"Got something?"

Anderson nodded, holding up a small device that Lestrade figured was what had been used to start the fire.

"We've found three of them," he said, gesturing to the arson team who they'd joined in helping. "Strategically placed. They haven't seen anything quite like it before. There was little fire damage, as you can see, but it was almost like it was planned that way."

Lestrade nodded.

"I've got to go back to the office and deal with some things, then I need to sleep. I'm going back to the hospital in the morning. Can you and the rest of the team handle things here?" he asked Anderson, gesturing to Sally as she came up beside him.

They nodded.

"Sir?" Sally asked. "How are they?"

"Alive. It's serious though. Bad smoke inhalation, which is all the more reason you need to find out what exactly was in those." He nodded towards the device, still in Anderson's gloved hand.

Sally nodded to him.

"Keep us updated," she called as Lestrade walked away, waving over his shoulder in agreement.

Finding his car where he left it, thank goodness, Lestrade drove back to the Yard to begin the paperwork.

He'd only sat down at his desk when he realized it wasn't going to work. It was past midnight and the past couple of days had been brutal, long days with early mornings fuelled by cups of coffee.

He sighed and threw the paperwork in his bag and headed home. He'd do it tomorrow while at the hospital.


	8. Mycroft II

As soon as they were stable, Mycroft had Sherlock and John transferred to a private room together. Mycroft would never admit it, not even to himself, but he would move heaven and earth to save his brother or his flatmate.

He did not sit by their bedsides, as that would have been pointless. He monitored them remotely and was alerted to when they would wake up so he would be there for that.

Despite promising blood work and increasing oxygen saturation levels, Sherlock was kept intubated for the next couple of days. Mycroft was given information about tracheal burns and other such things, which he skimmed, but didn't absorb. He had the best doctors working on his brother and his flatmate and trusted them.

Days later, Sherlock was extubated and recovering well. Mycroft was sitting at his bedside, watching him and John bicker about something trivial. He wasn't even sure anymore what it was.

A presence at the door was a welcome intrusion.

"Ah, detective inspector. Good of you to come. You have news I take it?"

Lestrade nodded at Mycroft, then turned his attention to Sherlock and John.

"Never seen anything like it before. Barely any fire. And what was there was contained, but extremely hot and produced more smoke than you'd believe. We've got the guys running samples now, but they think that some other chemicals were thrown in."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "Clever..." he murmured. He sighed again, the moment lost. "But still unbelievably dull."

Mycroft was inclined to agree. But as both Holmes brother knew, Moriarty was rarely predictable. If anything, he took the literal route because he would be expected to take the metaphorical route. Or perhaps this was just a warm up. One could never know, and that was perhaps the single most frustrating thing for both Sherlock and Mycroft to face. They had both survived in a world where people were nothing if not predictable.

Still, Mycroft was confident Moriarty would be as well, as soon as they could figure out his patterns and motivations.

He had a team on it. None as good as Sherlock, of course, but there weren't any as good.

"Recover quickly brother," Mycroft instructed as he parted, hovering in the doorway. "We need you."


	9. Sherlock III

Sherlock had little memory of the events during or after the fire, including his and John's recovery. He did seem to have faint recollections of being intubated as well as being in the hyperbaric chamber, the latter which pleased him and the former irritated.

However, the thing that irked him most was the mundane way in which Moriarty carried out his threat.

Literally burning the heart out of him. Sherlock shook his head at it and sighed yet again, for perhaps what was the fifth time in as many minutes.

John, lying in the bed next to him, perhaps trying to sleep, was not impressed.

"What is it Sherlock." He didn't really sound interested. But Sherlock was bored and Mycroft had left and Lestrade had texted to say he wouldn't be able to make it that day. Which meant John was the one who was going to suffer.

"Moriarty. It's all so dull!" he sighed, assuming his thinking position.

John rolled over, his childish attempt to face away from Sherlock in an attempt to ignore him thwarted.

"You think a man like that would have at least gone for something interesting." Sherlock pouted a little, and he could tell John was resisting the urge to laugh at him.

"Right. Well. I guess he's not so clever now, is he?"

Sherlock hummed. He could tell John was only trying to appease him to get him to shut up.

"Bored," he declared, and he could practically hear John's brain swearing at him, although nothing left his mouth.

"I don't know Sherlock. Call Lestrade and bug him or something. We're going home tomorrow."

Sherlock pouted. He didn't want to call Lestrade. Last time he'd shown up he'd only talked about how the investigation was going, and Sherlock didn't want to hear about that if he couldn't help. Especially considering Anderson was the one on forensics. It made Sherlock sick just to think about.

He glanced back at John, who'd given up on sleep and was now flipping through a magazine Mrs Hudson had brought from the flat.

"I don't see why you get to be all... free," he commented, waving a hand vaguely in John's direction.

John sighed, but took the bait. "What do you mean?"

"You don't have any wires hooked up to you, whereas I do." Sherlock flicked his finger to prove a point, the wire snailing from it dancing in the air.

"Because I didn't require hyperbaric therapy, nor was I a previous drug addict who likely did some damage to his heart prior to this incident."

Sherlock scowled. "You were shot though."

"In the shoulder. Hardly relevant."

Sherlock glared at him, and John pretended not to notice, still flipping through the magazine.

Sherlock sighed and flipped on the TV, surfing through channels without the volume on, trying to find something that wasn't extremely dull. He failed. After twenty minutes of that he switched it off and threw the remote at it.

"Stupid dull and pointless," he muttered to himself. John hadn't scolded him yet for throwing things, but Sherlock was sure it was inevitable.

So he waited. And waited. And it didn't happen.

What was the fun in misbehaving if no one was going to call you out on it?

Sherlock rolled back to face John. Sleeping. Incredibly dull.

"John," he called. When there was no response, he called again. "John!"

Still no response. Sherlock frowned. Perhaps this would require a different tactic.

"John, I need to borrow your gun. This room doesn't feel like home without a holey smiley face on the wall."

Silence.

"John, Mycroft is coming and is bringing cake. We can make fun of him when he eats it."

Silence.

"John! This is dull! Wake up and entertain me!"

Silence.

Sherlock wished he hadn't throw the remote away now, he could have used it to throw at John.

Sherlock huffed. Now he was going to have to get up and poke John.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed, thankful that at least the wires that tethered him were long enough to stretch to John's bedside. _Although the alarms would wake him up... _Sherlock shook his head. Bad idea.

The world spun for a minute as Sherlock adjusted to being upright. When his vision cleared, he wobbled over to John, pausing a moment before systematically poking him in the upper arm repeatedly. "John," poke, "John," poke, "John," poke.

Sherlock frowned. John was usually a light sleeper. God knows how he ever slept at Baker street with Sherlock and his violin or multiple experiments.

Glancing over John with an intense stare, Sherlock noted three things that were immediately worrying.

One, John was breathing rapidly. Two, his lips were almost, _almost _blue. Three, his nails were the same shade as his lips.

Bad, bad, bad.

In one swift move, Sherlock unclipped the pulse ox from his finger and clipped it on John's. It took a moment for the machine to get its bearing, after which it was very unhappy, which it decided to make known with a rather unpleasant noise.

"I told you so," Sherlock informed John before getting lost in the rush of nurses and subsequent doctors who came to answer the machine's call.

But he took no pleasure in the fact he was right as one of the nurses settled him back in bed, pulling a curtain between him and John.


	10. Lestrade III

"What. The. Hell."

Lestrade was pacing back and forth in front of Sherlock's bed, having just heard the news.

Sherlock made a non-committal noise, and Lestrade suspected he wasn't even listening. His hands were beneath his chin in the typical 'I'm thinking, don't bother me' pose.

"They won't let me in to see him in the ICU because I'm not family."

"They'll let me in," Sherlock said suddenly.

Lestrade stopped pacing.

"Since when were you listening to me?" he asked in disbelief.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The whole time."

"And what makes you so sure?" Lestrade shot back, crossing his arms.

"It will go down one of two ways. Either Mycroft pulls strings or I declare that John and I are partners. Whichever is easiest really."

Lestrade stared at him for a second before shaking his head and laughing.

_Means to an end... Sherlock will pretend to be John's partner to see him while he's in intensive care and yet claims he's a sociopath? Not bloody likely._

"I hardly think you should find this amusing," Sherlock spat at him, obviously not impressed by Lestrade finding anything funny about this situation.

"Right," Lestrade replied, contorting his face back into a worried mask. "Do you want to go now?" he asked, eyeing Sherlock's attire. It was his typical in between case wear, complete with dressing gown. He wondered when Sherlock had gotten those.

"Mrs Hudson. And yes," he said, replying to the unanswered question as well as the one posed aloud. "Socks," he ordered Lestrade, gesturing to a bag tossed on a chair.

Lestrade sighed, but rifled through the bag, digging out a pair of socks and throwing them at Sherlock.

"Hope she didn't wreck the sock index," he muttered to himself. "Right," he said, getting up. "Come on."

Lestrade frowned. "Why do you want me to come?"

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief for a minute, and Lestrade wondered what it was that he said that was so extremely stupid. He couldn't work it out, and soon Sherlock took pity on him.

"Because, Detective Inspector, I am still recovering and it may be good to have someone around in case the same thing happens to me as to John. Also, I've been mistaken as an escaped psych patient more than once, so it adds credibility to my story if someone else is with me. And finally, these socks are slippery and it would do to have someone there to catch me should I slip."

"You could put on shoes," Lestrade pointed out. Sherlock glared in response. "Right, sorry," he muttered. "Let's go."

And they departed for the ICU, Lestrade taking his role as Sherlock catcher quite seriously, even going so far as to offer an arm to Sherlock, which only got him a glare in return.

In all fairness, he really should have expected that though.


	11. Mycroft III

Mycroft knew perfectly well how Sherlock's mind functioned. (Regarding most things, most of the time. Or at least when it came to John. His brother was tirelessly predictable when it came to John.)

He was waiting outside John's bed in the ICU when Sherlock arrived, trailed closely by Lestrade.

"And I was so hoping to use my acting skills..." Sherlock muttered to himself. Mycroft ignored him.

"Heart damage," he informed Sherlock and the DI, nodding to the latter. "They're not sure to what extent yet."

Sherlock scowled. "I need to see him," he insisted.

Mycroft nodded. "I've arranged for you to have unlimited access, except when they're doing procedures." He held a hand out, gesturing towards a comfortable chair that he'd had brought in. There was no need for his recovering brother to suffer in the usual plastic chairs that were situated next to every bed in the hospital.

Sherlock scowled at him, knowing what had happened, but Mycroft only smiled tightly until he gave in.

Sherlock pulled his legs into the chair with him, curling into a ball and reaching out for John's hand resting on the bed as he perused his chart.

Mycroft watched this for a minute, feeling rather pleased with himself.

"Thank you," he said quietly, knowing that Lestrade was still hovering there, just out of his sight.

"Yeah. Sure."

Lestrade acted like it was nothing, which it may have been, at least superficially, but Mycroft knew how difficult Sherlock was to deal with, and was grateful to Lestrade for putting up with him. Even if he rarely expressed that gratitude.

"Now if you'll excuse me," he said, still staring at his brother and John, "I'm going to go speak with his doctors. You're welcome to the same privileges as Sherlock."

He saw Lestrade nod out of the corner of his eye as he spun and headed down the hall, umbrella in hand purposefully.


	12. Sherlock IV

Sherlock scanned John as he headed in the room. Looking mildly better than he'd been when Sherlock had noticed something was wrong, but that was hardly a contest. He looked worse in the sense that he had more tubes and wires. He was unconscious and his face was covered with a mask. Breathing on his own, but not entirely steadily. Sherlock took no pleasure in noting that John now had the wires he'd complained about him lacking before. He wondered for half a second if he wished them on him, but dismissed it as ridiculous. Still, there was that nagging sensation in the back of his mind that kept whispering to him. He ignored it. Now was not the time.

He grabbed the chart off the end of the bed and curled up in the chair. He thought better that way. Skimming through, he noted an utter lack of a definitive cause for John's heart damage, although he suspected what the true reason was.

Moriarty had done it. The toxicity of the carbon monoxide combined with whatever the hell he mixed in proved to be too much for John's heart.

In an indirect way, he was burning out Sherlock's heart- burning John's, and everyone knew that John was Sherlock's heart.

How poetic.

Sherlock may have been furious about Moriarty's previous lack of elegance, but now he was... what was the word he wanted? Apoplectic. Livid. Enraged.

Yes. Yes he was.


	13. Lestrade IV

"There has to be something, some sort of treatment or cure. Dialysis. Chelation. IVIG. An antidote?" Sherlock spun around the room, pacing as he spat the words at his brother.

Mycroft shook his head. "Not unless they know what it is. Exactly."

Sherlock scowled and Lestrade could see the rage growing in him. Not wanting this to blow into a full scale meltdown, Mycroft took a step towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he said firmly. "Breathe. You can go down to the lab and test sample. You know what Anderson's like, he was the one on forensics. You can do all the tests to your satisfaction."

Sherlock took in a shaky breath and nodded. "Yeah..." he said faintly. "Yeah..." and he allowed himself to be led to the lab by his brother, guiding him by the arm, Lestrade belatedly noting that Sherlock was still only wearing socks.

Lestrade weighed his options. Sherlock would likely just be annoyed at him if he was in the lab with him, but John wasn't even aware that he was present. And John would want him to go with Sherlock. Babysit, as it were. Mycroft wouldn't be able to stay for long, and then someone would need to make sure he didn't start throwing things or make Molly cry.

With a pat to John's shoulder and a parting nod, Lestrade took off down the hall after the Holmes brothers, slowly progressing towards the elevator and then to the lab.

Predictably in both senses, the elder Holmes had to leave shortly after delivering Sherlock to the lab, who was not pleased with Lestrade being in attendance. More than once he told Lestrade to shut up because his thinking was too loud.

Lestrade took deep breaths and reminded himself that Sherlock's (only) friend was potentially dying, and this was how he dealt with it.

He made it through several hours that way, watching with utter bewilderment as Sherlock mixed things, used machinery, and occasionally threw dishes.

When Molly returned from her third washroom break (Lestrade suspected they were more to get away from the abuse than anything else) he took that opportunity to run back up to intensive care and check on John.

"I'll be right back," he told Molly, who looked exhausted. "I think I'll stop in the cafeteria on the way back, do you want anything?"

She shook her head and Lestrade nodded, one last glance at Sherlock over his shoulder before dashing up the stairs.


	14. Molly

Molly understood what Sherlock was going through. At least, she thought she did, what with her dad and everything, so Sherlock didn't have to be that mean because she was really only trying to be helpful. And even with the DI there to run interference, Molly still had to run off three times to try and collect herself before returning.

Sherlock had called her stupid, told her to stop her useless quibbling, and had broken three test tubes, five glass slides, and one petri dish. And it wasn't even lunch yet.

So when the DI ran out and claimed he was going to check on John and get some food, she couldn't blame him, but was rather anxious about what would happen when he wasn't around.

She'd dealt with Sherlock on his own before, but he was temperamental at the best of times, which this was most certainly not. And especially since John, Molly had mostly been able to leave him in the lab, confident in the knowledge that John would keep him from doing something incredibly stupid or dangerous.

But what was she supposed to do? Refuse that the man could leave? She was hardly capable of that.

Which was how she ended up being left alone in a lab with an emotional and erratic Sherlock Holmes, rambling on about bees. (It was really all she could think of.)

Sherlock had just thrown his beaker at the wall, which thankfully, was plastic and didn't break, when Molly tried this diversion tactic.

"A queen bee can lay 1500 eggs a day," she stammered. Sherlock looked at her with a sideways glance that didn't seem to be disapproving, so she continued. "They do warmup dances before they leave the hive. They have five eyes and two pairs of wings. Bees are classified as insects and are the only ones that make food humans can eat. Male bees are called drones and don't have stingers. The female bees-"

"Yes, yes, that's quite enough, thank you Molly," Sherlock muttered, waving a hand at her, his head face down on the work bench.

"Honey has natural preservatives and bacteria can't grow in it, which gives it potentially medical applications."

"Not for John," he replied.

"Oh, I didn't mean..." she trailed off, biting her lip. Perhaps she should just stop talking.

"Yes, good plan," Sherlock muttered, unsticking his head from the work top and reaching for a pipette.

"Yes. Right. D'you need anything?"

Sherlock contemplated that for a moment. "Yes, some more iodine."

Molly didn't question why Sherlock needed more when he obviously still had a full bottle at his feet, mostly because she'd had enough berating for one day.

Ducking into the storage room and grabbing another bottle off the shelf, she returned to the lab in less than a minute to find it empty.

"Sherlock?" she called, hoping that he might answer and knowing he wouldn't.

She sighed. That DI was going to kill her.

"Molly," a voice called, and her heart sank. "Where's Sherlock?"

Molly looked over to him, crisps in one hand and a plastic-wrapped sandwich in the other.

"I turned away for a second... and he just... vanished," she squeaked.

Tossing the crisps onto the counter haphazardly (which made Molly cringe, she knew from experience that could be a mistake, especially considering Sherlock had been the last one to use it) he ran a hand through his hair.

"When?" he asked.

"Just now," she stammered.

He was out the door before she could warn him about the crisps.

Molly sighed and went to check them for damage.


	15. John III

John had noted a shortness of breath and pain in his chest before he fell asleep, but wrote it off as being nothing, just a side effect of smoke inhalation or something of the sort. (Doctors were notoriously bad patients.) It was when he woke up in the ICU feeling no better, in fact, worse, with a mask on his face and at least twice the number of tubes and wires he'd had when first waking up a few days ago, he knew he was in trouble.

Thankfully, that was the moment Lestrade decided to turn up.

"Greg?"John muttered, his voice muffled behind the mask. But it appeared he heard him, because Lestrade hovered over John's face and looked concerned.

"Are you okay?"

_How should he know? _"What happened?"

"Sherlock couldn't wake you up and he panicked."

_Sherlock panicking? Huh. _

"Can you get my chart?"

That sentence didn't seem to be as clear, because Lestrade just stared at him with a perplexed look on his face.

"Chart?" John repeated, struggling to sit up and perhaps point it out before deciding that was too much struggle for what it was worth, and lay back down again, exhausted.

"Your chart?" Lestrade parroted, and John nodded at him.

John closed his eyes and heard him take a could of steps, felt a slight vibration of something hitting the bed, and more footsteps. He reopened his eyes to find Lestrade hovering over him again, increasingly concerned.

"Are you okay?"

John nodded. "Tired. Read it?"

Lestrade shrugged and began flipping through pages.

John closed his eyes, just for a minute and waited for him to speak.

"I can't read a lot of this, you know, doctor's writing and all, but I can make out some of it. A cute-" he broke off, and John looked over at him to see him frowning. "Why would anyone say your heart is cute?"

"Acute," John mumbled.

"What?"

John waved a hand vaguely, gesturing for him to go on.

"A cute heart failure. Umm... this one's a bit hard to say, dyspnea, swelling of extremities, rapid heart rate... undetermined source although may be linked to..." he paused for a second, deciphering a word, "previous carbon monoxide poisoning."

He looked back to John, who was finding it more and more difficult to stay awake.

"I don't..." John trailed off, unsure of what he was going to say.

He shook his head, perhaps that would force the word loose and make it come out. No such luck.

"S'no sense," he tried, frowning. The words weren't coming out like he wanted.

"It's okay John," Lestrade reassured him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock is on it."

_So that's where the extremely pompous detective is. I surely thought he'd be here with me..._

John's eyes were slipping shut against his will and he demanded they stay open. He had too many questions, too many things to worry about before he went to sleep.

But it was a losing battle, and his eyes slid shut and he heard Lestrade's footsteps fade away, muttering something about petri dishes and crisps.

_Probably talking about Sherlock, _John thought, and he could have laughed.


	16. Sherlock V

Sherlock hadn't planned to escape Molly's watchful eye, it just so happened that he had a sudden epiphany when she was out of the room. (Perhaps she was out of the room because he'd sent her on a meaningless task, but that was irrelevant.)

_Of course, it made so much sense. I'm not sick and John is, which seems unusual, because he was actually doing better than me when we first arrived. Which means it must be a difference in treatment._

Sherlock skidded to a stop outside of John's room, barely managing not to fall. He noted that he was still only in his stocking feet, and perhaps that wasn't the best thing to be running around the hospital in.

John was looking, if possible, worse than before. His arms and legs seemed to have swelled.

_Fluid retention because of the decreased blood flow to the kidneys, _he diagnosed._ But now's not the time, _he reminded himself.

Digging around in his dressing gown (why was he wearing that anyway, he's on a case) he pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft.

Got it. Come and order people about.

SH

He sat back at John's bedside, confident in the knowledge that he would recover.

It barely registered when Lestrade ran in not five minutes later, gasping, probably from running up the multiple flights of stairs. _Too impatient to take the elevator, obviously worried, but why? Right. He thought he lost me, and seeing how he believes I'm unstable right now, probably not a good situation._

"I figured it out," he declared as a way of hopefully preventing Lestrade from speaking. "And time was of the essence, so, sorry if you felt left out that I didn't wait for you."

Lestrade still wasn't looking convinced.

"Mycroft is on his way to arrange treatment."

"What it is?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

"What. Is. It."

"Oh. Obvious."

"Not to me it isn't. And apparently not to you, or you would have figured it out earlier."

Sherlock glared at him. _How dare he... what happened to recovering and shock and whatever else..._

Lestrade apparently seemed to realize his mistake (rightly so) because he held up his hands.

"Sorry. Fine. So what is it?"

Sherlock grinned. "The only obvious difference."

Mycroft took that opportunity, as was often his way, to make a dramatic entrance.


	17. Mycroft IV

Mycroft returned to the hospital after a text from Sherlock that declared he'd figured out what was wrong with Doctor Watson, and arrived to find an irritated Lestrade and an ecstatic Sherlock.

One of whom was obviously antagonizing the other, although whether it was on purpose or accidental, Mycroft could never be sure. He stood there for a moment, sure that they were both aware of his presence, yet too involved in arguing to be bothered to greet him.

"What's the only difference." Sherlock asked breathlessly, eyes wide and eager. "Come on, what is it."

Lestrade shrugged, "I dunno... your DNA?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "No, _no, _in our treatments. Everything else was the same except for one thing." He waited for Lestrade to answer, but when there was only a bewildered look, he turned to Mycroft.

"Please tell me you know what's going on?" he pleaded.

Mycroft smirked. He was not really one for smirking, but this was a special occasion.

"I've got a team ready for him now."

"Excellent. Go!" Sherlock urged. Mycroft flipped his phone out to make the call, turning his back on the two of them, Lestrade still looking bewildered.

"Care to explain?" Lestrade asked.

"The hyperbaric chamber of course," Sherlock insisted exasperatedly. "The only variable."

"It's time," Mycroft said when the phone was answered. And that was all that was needed to spring an entire team of doctors, nurses, and aides into action. He could order a county or an entire military into action, but _this_, this was more important.


	18. Sherlock VI

Sherlock scowled. He wanted to go in the hyperbaric chamber with John, but Mycroft told him that he needed to leave space for the doctors, and besides, he still was one hundred percent, and wouldn't want to take any help away from John.

Sherlock hated when Mycroft used logic to convince him. It wasn't playing fair.

So he hovered outside the strange little room that was rather like a submarine, with its little windows and layers of metal walls. He peered in the windows anxiously, wondering how long this bloody thing could take. Mycroft attempted to drag him out more than once, and a well placed kick to his knee discouraged him from trying that again.

He could tell that the doctors were rather irked with their constant observer, but Sherlock could care less. John was intubated as a precaution, and if possible, looked worse than before. _Perhaps he could make a scale of how dreadful John looks... _he mused.

He was mildly bored, but instead focused on John's heartbeat, trying to watch it through the hospital gown and failing miserably. He tried looking up how to read ECGs, but it made absolutely no sense to him. Perhaps it was the circumstances, perhaps it was the nature of the task, but it seemed impossible. So he gave up on that and took notes on his heart rate and blood pressure every five minutes and graphed it.

The graphs were beautiful. Sherlock was not one for art, but if he was, John's vital signs would be hung on the walls of their flat. (Or perhaps not, because bad things happened to those walls.)

With that to keep the boredom at bay, he settled in and waited.


	19. John IV

When he awoke, John was a little foggy on the details, but gathered from Sherlock's rantings that there was something to do with heart failure (that much he could still recognize, as damage didn't just disappear on its own), a hyperbaric chamber, and Sherlock being clever. The latter being entirely obvious, as Sherlock would have pointed out, as he was always clever.

He also managed to gather that Sherlock was impressed by Moriarty's 'burning the heart out of him', although furious at the same time. It was an interesting combination.

"What's that?" he asked, spotting a colourful sheet of paper on the table near his bed, partially covered by Sherlock's discarded scarf.

"Nothing," he said hastily, trying, and failing, to cover it up more.

John gave him The Look. The one that meant Sherlock would no escape this.

He sighed. "I graphed your vital signs. And coloured them. I may have been slightly bored."

John grinned. "Is my being in hospital boring you?" he teased. "You can go home, or on a case, or something, as long as you're careful. Of course, I'm talking to you, and you're never careful. Risking your life to prove you're clever." John's grin faded a bit when Sherlock didn't crack a smile. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock declared, straightening up as if that would convince him. John knew better than that.

John repeated The Look. He knew Sherlock would give in. And with a sigh, he did.

"You're not dead," Sherlock said seriously, "and that's all that matters. My boredom is irrelevant."

John smiled. He also made a note to ask Mycroft who this reliable source was that informed Sherlock he did not have a heart. Because if Mycroft had not taken care of him, which was entirely possible, as soon as John was feeling better, he would.

Not to mention Moriarty. John wasn't too bothered by the smoke damage, he figured it would happen sooner or later, but the heart damage he could do without, what with running around London after Sherlock all the time. He was assured he would recover fully, but that still didn't negate the fact that it happened in the first place.

Not to mention what could have happened if Mrs Hudson was home. John didn't even want to think about that. If anything had happened to Mrs Hudson, Sherlock would have extubated himself, left AMA, and tracked down Moriarty and choked the life out of him with his bare hands.

Thankfully, that didn't happen. But Moriarty was still out there, and they both knew that he wouldn't stop until he succeeded.

John hoped that he'd have the chance to show him what burning really was.

Pity Moriarty didn't have a heart to burn.


End file.
